Different, With People
by masked-spangler
Summary: She hates Cameron because she isn't human. But when disaster strikes, that very non-humanity will bring Sarah out of a very dark place... note: violence, rape, torture mentioned but not shown
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note

I have no idea where this came from. I've never done a fic on this particular sensitive topic before, and don't think I will again. But I have been fascinated by the dynamic on this show between Sarah and Cameron, how Sarah has taken into her life and her child's life a being she distrusts so completely, and how she has resisted all attempts Cameron has made to humanize herself. I started thinking that in their line of work, with the violence they see, that Cameron's very non-humanity might grow to be a comfort sometime...

Anyway, if some under-played but clearly obvious mentions of rape will upset you, move on, please. If not, enjoy the fic and consider yourself clearly warned.

Timeline note: we're after Sarkissian, but the incident in the fic is wholly non-cannon.


	2. Chapter 2

He hears the bang at the door, but barely. It's a weak and timid knock, and he sees, when he answers it, that it's because their hands are full. Full of her, full of carrying her. Charley has cleaned up the worst of it, washed the blood, set the arm, wrapped it in a sling already darkening with fresh leaking. There is a small white bandage on her forehead, visible beneath her hair.

"Jesus," he says.

Derek sets her on the couch, smoothes out those of her limbs which are not restrained by bandages.

"She's only sleeping, in case you were wondering," he says.

John nods.

"She was awake, in the ambulance. Charley talked to her."

He bites his lip. "Okay. Good."

"She...she wouldn't tell him, John. Wouldn't tell him what they did while they had her."

Three days ago, the terminators came. An ambush, while he was on his way back from another attempt at school. They had gotten comfortable, more than a week into this new routine, and she had finally agreed she didn't need to drive him. But it was his first day on the bus, and she had been worrying. She'd come to meet them, and so she was there when it happened. They still weren't sure how the enemy found them; it had happened before, and he knew it would again. Cameron had protected him. But she couldn't reach his mother in time, and they took her, hoping for leverage. He's been using the pre-paid cell phone they left with their ransom note to stall them these last few days while they tracked her down and organized a rescue. They have only now retrieved her.

Derek sees the guilt on his face, and sets a hand on his shoulder.

"Hey. You don't own this."

"Uh huh."

"We're stepping up our game. They are too. It happens."

On the couch, his mother stirs, and he kneels down beside her.

"Mom."

"John. Did they hurt you?"

"No. Did they hurt you?"

"Yes."

He cannot suppress a shudder.

"Is Charley still here?"

"Why? Do you need...is it hurting?"

"It's hurting. But that's not...Charley? I need Charley. Have to...tell him..."

Cameron comes in, with Charley. He has apparently been bundling equipment for them, groceries, a radio, medical supplies. More bandages. She carries the heavy boxes easily.

He nods to Charley. "She wants to talk to you."

Charley kneels down beside her, but she's still too dazed, or drugged, or hurting. She can't quite keep her voice soft enough, and they hear her.

"Thank you," she tells him. "For leaving it. When I asked you not to look there."

"Call me," he tells her. "If you change your mind. If you're hurting...there...I can treat the injuries."

"They'll heal."

Charley winces a little, and closes his eyes. Evidently, she has just confirmed something for him.

"Charley," she says. "I'm fine."

"You're a fighter."

"I don't look it, now."

"You'll heal."

"I will. Thanks."

"Yeah." He leans over and gives her forehead a chaste little kiss. She's asleep before he's even left her.

--

He catches Charley outside, as he's unloading the last of the supplies onto Derek and Cameron.

"What was that about?" he asks.

Charley looks up, then turns back to his work. "What was what about?"

"That. What she said, about you leaving something. About her asking you to."

A shadow crosses Charley's face. "Not my place."

"Charley..."

"No. If she'll tell you...but that, it's not my place. They had her for three days, John."

"Okay..."

"And she was leverage," he says. "They pushed whatever buttons they could to draw you out."

He knows. They called him, once or twice a day, on the pre-paid cell phone. They made her say things to him. They made her scream. He held. She held. But...

"They beat her," he said. "Her arm, those bandages..."

"Yeah, they beat her. Maybe they did more."

The implication finally dawns on him. He almost throws up. "You mean...you mean they..."

"I don't know," Charley says. "She wouldn't tell me. She asked me not to look. And you know something? Part of me was glad a little. Rather not see it that way, you know? In my head, I would rather not see her that way."

But John, now that the seed had been planted, couldn't get the image out of his mind. She asked him not to look. That must have meant there was something to see, and she would know that someone with Charley's training would see it. Terminators, and the human thugs that went with them, had her for three days. What had they done to her?

--

Hours later, they hear her screaming. It's so dark. He fumbles through the unfamiliar hallways of the safe house, trying to get to her. The screams have woken Derek too, and he's fumbling as John is, stumbling in the dark at half-trot.

"Mom? Mom!"

"Sarah?" Derek calls. He spies Cameron, fully dressed, hovering in the doorway, smooth robot face displaying only curiosity.

Derek shakes her. "Hey. What the hell happened?"

"She woke up," Cameron says.

"Yeah, we see that. And?"

"And she was screaming."

Disgusted, Derek pushes past her, flips on a light, examines her. She's tangled in the thin, yellowed sheets, kicking them off of herself. The thrashing is half-hearted now, and the screams have broken off into light, tired weeping.

"Sarah?"

She turns her head away. "Go away."

"What happened?"

"Bad dream. Sorry I woke you. Is John okay?"

"Are you?"

She closes her eyes again. "Please."

An hour later, she's screaming again. But Cameron, still dressed, never sleeping, is standing guard at her door. "She's fine," Cameron says. "She told me she's fine. She doesn't want to see you."

--

She's up for breakfast, eyes bruised with sleepless shadows. She's making pancakes, and greets John with an overly cheerful smile. She won't quite meet his eyes.

"Mom. How are you feeling?"

"You don't need to ask me that."

"Mom..."

"No. Don't ask me."

"But..."

"Look." She touches his cheek, finally meeting his gaze. "When you don't want to talk, we don't talk."

He sighs. "Yeah."

"So, I've had worse. I've fought, even, through worse."

"It...it feels different this time."

"It is different. But I don't want to talk about that with you."

"Mom..."

"John. I don't want to talk."

He nods. "Yeah. Okay. Just want to make sure you're taken care of, you know?"

"Don't worry. I had Cameron check me. She changed my bandages."

"You hate Cameron."

"Yeah. But she's not a person, is she?"

And she's back to the pancakes. He wants to talk some more, wants to say out loud what he thinks has happened. Wants her to say it. But even he has to admit, there are some things about their mothers that sons just should not know.

--

They're going through some computer logs he's hacked off the internet, chat transcripts between an associate of Sarkissian and an executive named Wheeler at a local technology firm. They think she's bought the Turk, and they are going through a week's worth of email and cell phone messages. By mid-day, his mother is flagging, fist rubbing up against her temples almost like a reflex, squirming a little too carefully as she sits. She only has one hand to turn pages.

She gets up at one point for the bathroom. She's in there a long time, and when she comes out again, calls Cameron to come in with her. Cameron picks up one of Charley's boxes and wordlessly complies. They are in there even longer, and his mother is noticeably pale when she comes out.

"I'll make sandwiches," she says.

John hops to his feet. "Let me."

"No," she tells him. Her eyes challenge him. She wants back her place. She will not be shelved or babied, just because of a blip like this. She knows her place. "I make the sandwiches."

He catches her hand as she passes him, ignores her sudden intake of sharp, pained breath. And this, from a touch to her non-bandaged side. "Mom. Just talk to me. It'll be better if you do."

"No, it won't be," she says.

"Mom..."

"John. Just let me make the damn sandwiches."

He lets her make them. And has to force himself to bite back a comment when, after all is said and done, she doesn't eat hers.

--

She dreams again, hazy, shadowy dreams full of strong men and sharp objects which form off of fingers from flowing metal, seemingly out of thin air. That part, she has shared with Derek and John already. They need to know that this is the model the ones on the other end are now sending back.

"We must be doing something right," Derek says. "If we're that much of a threat to them now. That's the good news."

"And the bad news?" prompts John.

"Yeah. The bad news is, this is the model they're sending back now. Damn."

"We need code words. So we can recognize each other if we ever get separated. So we can know they didn't take one of us over."

That was one of the things they had tortured her about, actually. They anticipated she would make this connection once she realized what they were, and they wanted to know what she might use for her safe words. She held out, at first, easily. She held out, when it was only her and the machines. But then they sent the people in, and rape was different with people. She still held out. But she likes to think they would have forgiven her if she hadn't.

She dreams again. The first time, she is unable to hold back the terrified whimpers. But Cameron is at her side before she's gotten out the whole of the first scream, and she finds herself settling. It surprises her that the robot has this effect on her. But she has just been reminded how terrifyingly strong these creatures really are, and she supposes it's comfort to have one on their side. She wakes again, more than once. But she does not scream anymore, and Cameron keeps impassive vigil by her bedside until morning.

--

John is sorting through those supply boxes again, with Derek. Hoping for clues, he supposes. She still won't talk to him. He holds up a plastic-wrapped package.

"What's this for?"

"A syringe," Derek says.

"And this?"

"A thermometer. What are we doing, John? What are you looking for in here?"

"She won't talk to me."

"I know. She won't talk to me either."

"It feels like this won't be over until she talks to me."

"And tells you what? That you couldn't have stopped this? That it's not your fault?"

"But it is my fault. If I had been stronger, they couldn't have taken her. If I had ended this sooner, they wouldn't have been able to..."

"No. This is war, John. You see it? It's war. It has nothing to do with how tough she is. It has nothing to do with how smart you are. It's war, and they are fighting it just as hard as we are. And you know? We're holding up damn well, considering. They know more. They have more. We're holding up damn well."

He holds up a fistful of bandages. "This? This isn't 'holding up well'."

"You're only saying that because it feels personal. It was your mom, and it feels personal."

"You think I don't understand what they did to her? It doesn't get more personal."

"Which brings us back to why she isn't talking about it."

"I need her to tell me."

"Maybe she doesn't need that."

"I need her to talk. I need to know she's okay."

Derek sighs. "It's not about what you need. Fighting them, your great destiny, that whole thing? That can be about you. But this? She has to work through it, John. It's not about you."

"How can she work through it if she won't talk about what happened?"

"She'll talk," Derek says. "Not to us, maybe. But she'll talk. I'd bet on it."

He's seen more war. He's seen more violation. John is willing to trust him on this, for now, anyway. But he wishes, he still wishes, that she would talk to him.

--

She's jittery, aware that they're watching her. John has not chided her about the eating, but Derek was not so shy, and there were threats to call Charley if she wasn't more cooperative today.

"I'm on painkillers," she says. "It dulls my appetite."

"A peanut butter sandwich isn't 'appetite,' Sarah. It's bare minimum nutrition to maintain the body's basic functions. You need to heal."

"Don't tell me what I need!"

They are both surprised by this outburst. He is chastened enough to put out his hand for her. She flinches away when he touches her, then sucks in a wince at the jostle to her still-slinged arm.

"Can we have another look at that?" he asks her gently.

"No. Don't touch me."

"I didn't say touch, Sarah."

She disintegrates. It happens so quickly, he hasn't even processed that she's breaking until her twitchy fist bats him away as she stumbles, hyperventilating.

"I need space," she manages. "I...need...air..."

She flees. Her tracks her as far as the back cellar door, then shadows her through the window as she paces the alleyway, shivering as the chill air sends goosebumps up her arms. He gives her a minute to collect herself. Then calls for Cameron.

--

It's cold, so cold, and there are shadows. It's night, she knows that much, and even though the panic and the lingering muddle of pain and sedative confuses her, she knows that some of the shadows aren't real. Some are, though. It's night, and it's dark, and there is blissful quiet for the first merciful time.

She finds pity as disarming as violence, sometimes. She does not quite know how to handle either of them. They bring out the same adrenaline, the same reversion to reflex and instinct and base muscle memory. It's why you train, why you fight, so that in the heat of the moment, your body will react, and strike. It's hard to turn that off when the provocation is that other kind of attention. Her instinct, in both kinds of battles, is to lash out, seek space, regroup and strike again. She knows that is not what her son needs from her right now. She knows he is scared, as much by her silence as anything. But she can't talk to him about this. What mother could? No, she can't talk. Not to a person, anyway.

She spots Cameron, come to get her, she supposes. And she knows they sent her, knows that Cameron, in a situation such as this, represents a person, even if she isn't one. But she is not a person, she's a machine, no more human than a microwave or a telephone or a jackhammer. A tool, just like those things are. She can use her that way. Like a tool. She looks up at that lovely, almost gentle non-human face and commands it, as one does with machines.

"I don't want you talking."

Cameron complies, nods silently, trains an alert gaze on her tear-streaked face, and waits.

"I'll tell you what happened," she says.

Cameron crosses her arms, leans against a pillar. Waits.

"There was an explosion. Do you remember? A smoke bomb or something. They dropped it so we couldn't see."

Cameron takes the direct question as permission, and answers. "Yes. I had to switch my visual processors into infrared. But you were too far away. I could still see John, but you were too far away."

"No, you did the right thing. It's him you're here to protect. I think...they weren't expecting that I'd come to meet you. It was him they planned to grab. But you had turned on your infrared, and you were protecting him. I felt a hand behind me, then pressure...they gagged me with something. Chloroform, I think. They left you a phone so they could find you."

"Yes," Cameron said. "We looked for you. After the smoke cleared, we looked for you, but you were gone. They left us a phone. We weren't even back at the safe house before they were calling."

"I don't remember all of this part," she says. "My head would start clearing, and then I would be out again. I remember them talking, the terminators. Didn't know their own strength. She'd ordered them not to kill me, their...their boss, she had ordered them to keep me alive so John would come for me. They didn't want to kill me. So they kept me out."

Cameron senses that a response is called for. "That seems sensible."

"But at some point, they switched tacks. Sent HER in...second day, I guess? She was sweet to me. Told me she didn't want to hurt me. That she knew John would come for me, that she would let him come, let him take me. And all I had to do was tell her what we knew."

"You didn't tell her," Cameron says.

"No, I didn't. So she sent them in again. But they were people, and I didn't...didn't know what to do with that..."

Cameron nods. "It's different with people."

She feels her eyes tearing up again. She struggles, trying to get it out. "I'd say 'no offense,' if I thought you had feelings. But yeah. It's different with people."

She needs a break from this. She feels it again in her mind, the hands around her throat, the now-familiar patois of chloroform and smelling salts and fluids from all the different parts of her. She's gagging, she can't help herself, and it's hard to take a breath.

"How did you find me?" she asks.

"She had an accent."

"What?"

"Their leader. She had a distinctive accent. Derek remembered it from some of the records they had in the resistance. Took us some time to narrow it to where she was basing herself at this point in the timeline, though. Otherwise, we would have been there sooner."

She swallows, willing her body to relax again. "How...much sooner?"

When Cameron answers, it's with a gentleness than surprises her. "Probably not soon enough to stop them. I'm sorry."

She swats at her eyes with her good hand, wiping back tears. "Yeah."

"It was a complex operation. Even once we had the i.d., we needed weapons, and floor plans and rappelling gear..."

"How long?" she presses. "How long did it take you to figure out where she was?"

"Maybe...six hours?"

She exhales. "Yeah. Not soon enough. Did they tell you? When they called you for ransom or whatever it was they called you for, did they tell you what they'd done?"

"They said they hurt you. They said there was blood."

"So he doesn't know all of it. John, he doesn't know all of it."

"No. He doesn't know."

She takes a deep breath. "Well, he's right about one thing. Saying it out loud, I do feel better. He...he doesn't know, really?"

"He suspects. But no, he doesn't know for sure."

"Well, let's keep it that way. Cameron, I want to forget that we ever had this conversation. Can you do that for me?"

"Yes."

"Well?"

She scans her internal memory, locates the sector that has been storing this conversation and isolates it. Then she initiates the deletion command.

DATA NODE ISOLATED, her sensors tell her. COMMAND SELECTED: PERMANENT DELETION. Y? N?

"Y," she chooses.

THIS ACTION CANNOT BE UNDONE. CONFIRM?

She confirms. It can't be undone. But she carries on, even so.

The end


End file.
